Page 118 of Crossed
I wince but push myself to a standing position, wiping the wetness that I can’t stop from trailing down my cheeks. Ihatethat I’m crying, because it makes me feel weak.
Powerless.
Which I guess is what I am.
It’s what he’s always made me.
Parker shoves me between the shoulders until I stumble forward, the front of my legs slamming into his desk, and he moves behind me, grabbing the pen and forcing it into my fingers, his disgusting, meaty hand wrapping around mine as he pushes the pen down to touch the certificate.
“You are not to see him again,wife. Understand?”
I hesitate and he slips his other hand up the back of my skirt and rips my underwear roughly from my body.
The burn on my skin doesn’t feel good this time.
“Parker,please,” I beg, a sob tearing out of my throat before I can hold it back. “Don’t do this again.”
“Sign it.”
I close my eyes tightly, praying for a miracle as I hear the clank of his buckle and the pressure of his hand as he presses my front onto the desk.
And when he thrusts inside me, I sign my name, my tears marring the ink.
Chapter47
Amaya
IT HURTS TO WALK.
It hurts to move.
It hurts to breathe.
But I still have Quinten and I still haveme, even though I’m beat down and quiet.
I’m a survivor.
And I know I’ll get through this the same way I have everything before it.
Today is the Festival of Fools, so despite the fact that I’d rather be anywhere other than here, in front of Notre- Dame where I know Cade will be, I paste a smile on my face and fake it for Quinten’s sake. He’s been in such a great mood since Christmas with me and Dalia.
Parker’s arm sits on my shoulders, and the feel of it makes me sick, bile rising in my throat and burning my esophagus until I ache to reach up and rip off my skin entirely.
It’s January 1, and the weather shows it, frigid air whipping across my cheeks and freezing the tips of my fingers, even though they’re covered with gloves. The entire square is filled with small white tents of vendors and space heaters laid out to keep people warm. Street performers line the walkway, clad in tight spandex clothes while they juggle bowling pins and balance on unicycles, which is only more impressive since there’s ice and slush on the ground. Still, there’s a general sense of merriment in the air, of people coming together to laugh and celebrate. It’s the one day of the year when Festivalé isn’t so grim, callous, andcold.
The warmth is almostmoreominous, and I shake off the uneasy feeling that’s wrangling my neck like a noose.
The cathedral doors are open today, serving hot chocolate and pastries out of the front entrance, and people mingle just inside, chatting and laughing while they catch up with friends. And in the sanctuary itself, there’s a makeshift stage, set up along the dais, where the children of Louis Elementary are about to put on their play.
My stomach rocks back and forth like a ship in a storm as I scan the area looking for Quinten. I haven’t seen him since we first got here and I passed him off to Lydia.
Parker and I move down the rows of pews and sit in the very front, waiting for the play to begin. I stay silent and still, trying not to wince every time I move on the uncomfortable wood. I’ve been bleeding a bit this morning, and if I move too much, it will draw attention.
The only attention I long for today is for Quinten. Forfinallybeing part of something in town after so many years of being the brunt of everyone’s ire.
The thought sends nausea curling through my gut, the same way being in Notre- Dame with the entire town always has, flashbacks of the last time I saw our mother playing behind my eyes on a constant loop.
No. Things are different now. Things are changing, I remind myself. That’s why we’re here, with Quinten taking part in the community.
